


having lost you to the tides

by theskylarshippers (coyotestoryteller)



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Flowers, M/M, Wakes & Funerals, alternate universe - sailing ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26709931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotestoryteller/pseuds/theskylarshippers
Summary: there is a little boat, and there is a silken carnation. there is a sailor, whose bones now rest in the ocean.and there is a lover, left behind.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	having lost you to the tides

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this directly into Discord, in one sitting, late at night. I've been thinking about sea shanties, and diminishing, and this is the result.

there is a little boat, one they had spent hours sanding and painting--  _ was that only a few months ago? _ he asks himself.  _ it feels like a lifetime, love. _ there is a sharp knife he takes from the abandoned bag that has been sliding on the floorboards, cast aside when two of the other sailors removed the empty hammock-- _ but not empty, the furthest thing from empty, full of- _ \- he cannot finish the thought. 

and there is blood on his fingertips when he nicks himself, splinters in his hand, lining up with the scars he's won from six months of sailing and the fresh cuts from that morning, that horrible morning. he will never wear his scars proudly again.

his hands are too shaky to do a good job of it.  _ if we had been ashore _ , he says to himself,  _ his father would have hired an artisan, and his name would have been carved into a canoe made for this purpose, and they would have done so much better by him than i could ever have done. _ still, he's carved the name into the single seat of the boat, because there is no one else to do it.

the hammock on the deck once was white, when it had been new and the whole ship had smelled like a fresh start and happiness and the chance at love. in the months of sailing it had faded to a pale gray, the color of time and salt and a comfortable companionship. it feels like a betrayal from the universe that the hammock could still be the same color, now that everything it's meant to him is gone.

and there is a body, still lying in the hammock, dragged up to where he stands by the little boat in which they will send his love off, and he cannot bear to look at it. the only thing that makes him force his eyes towards the mass of rope and the dark spot in his vision is that no one else will touch him. the sailors he's known for months, they've known for months, are lifting the hammock into the boat, and he cannot see his love go out to sea entangled, so he throws up his hands and cries out, telling them to set him down on the deck.

his hands tremble. the men step back from him, turning away to look out to sea; he cannot bear to touch the body, but he has to. it's an ordeal to keep himself from flinching and dropping him, but he unwraps the hammock from him, slowly, gingerly, and sets him down gently in the boat. his eyes are closed, and it reminds him, horribly, of one time when they'd been docked and his lover had fallen asleep drunk in one of the lifeboats. there had been good things then. sleep had been good then. how had everything gone wrong so quickly?

'there should be flowers,' he says, not realizing he's spoken aloud until he hears footsteps above him. one of the sailors (a man he's known for months, but in the moment he cannot recognize the face) sits on the deck next to him, holding a brightly colored silk jacket and a pair of sharp silver scissors. a flash of light, and a few snips and quick, practiced folds, and he's made a flower from the emerald cloth. 'i'm sorry,' the sailor says. 'i know you-- loved him.'

he nods and takes it, tucking it into his love's hair-- hair like cornsilk and honey and gold and everything that has ever been perfect in the world. 'will you teach me how?'

the sailor cuts another strip of cloth and takes his hands, guiding his fingers. it takes him nearly five minutes to make one that is acceptable to him. in that time, other sailors are bringing out more silk, more pairs of scissors, whispering to each other. one of them is fashioning purple tulips from a lady's satin dress; another folds a crown of blue roses with little visible difficulty from the remnants of what was once a gentleman's waistcoat. he wonders what his love would think, seeing nearly the whole crew sitting on the deck, hacking their best clothes to pieces for his memory.

he lifts the body out again, they fill the boat with fabricated flowers, laying him to rest in a bed of them. he musters the stomach to clasp his lover's stiff fingers around a bouquet of blood-red roses and emerald carnations. it nearly makes him want to cry, how beautiful his death is.

'are you ready?' someone says, and he nods, even though he will never be ready to let go. he will never move on. the sun will never rise in the morning, and he will never awaken to his love's laugh, and there is no reason for him to breathe anymore, but he is left behind.

'goodbye,' he says softly, reaching out to touch the body's cheek. 'i love you.' and then someone is lifting one end of the boat, and he takes the other, and they tie ropes to each end and lower him down towards the deep blue water. it's a calm day, a bright day, with sun glinting off the water and the honey of his hair, and his only love in the world is diminishing, becoming farther and farther away.

there's an audible splash when the boat hits the water, and it's like a punch in the stomach when someone steps up behind him and cuts the ropes.  _ he's gone, _ he thinks dimly to himself. my love is gone.

behind him the crew goes back to their tasks, but he is leaning over the side and watching as the canoe drifts over the waves and their ship sails on. his eyes are fixed to the canoe in the distance, which becomes simply a bright spot on the horizon before it fades away.

and then there is nothing left for him but the sky and the sea.


End file.
